This probably should be listed as a blog entry...but I would like to get an opinion on it

this novella is about girl who identities herlself as "moonprysim" and various street names. She never gives her name but does give her deadname (as she hated it)and, well
, still working on it.

the best damn thing

I'm picturing my own room, the one that I never had.

The one with a sleigh-bed head and footboards with a vanity that takes up the entire wall. The spacious top lined with knick-knacks, pictures and make-up...ones that never dried out or were acquired by stealing. Brushes of different sizes and function, all siting before me.

The medium sized closet to hang clothes; ones bought by benevolent parents who cared what I wore and made sure that I was home before curfew or at least were happy that I was calling after being late.

Maybe a small computer...or an iPad; something to correspond with colleges or chat with a friend or two.

That's all a vision, it's a gumdrop and sugar-induced fantasy played out on television and in books that scream "life is going to be okay...everyone gets a happy ending!"

Mine would be happy if it ended.
That's been my mantra for three years now as my bedroom changes every other night.

Three years of living everywhere but nowhere.
What's the 'hip term'?
Couch surfing?
Yeah, sure...if one has money. Without money, you end up auctioning yourself.
It doesn't start that way. You start with freedom, complete freedom from caring about everything because the people who are supposed to care for you finally told you that you were no longer wanted.

The helling was yell.
And the shouting was too.
But when family doesn't accept it, what to do?

It wasn’t always like that. Yes, there was a time when I existed in the “normal” realm from when I was seven until I urned thirteen. Those were the years where I had a family, a room I shared with my older brother in a mid-size house and a magenta and teal bicycle, given to me by a local church. I was a bit disappointed with it at first as my brother and his friends made fun of it, even though, he himself had a bucket from the same charity program but his was grey and had one of those stunt seats. It was like heaven opened up and the bicycle god bestowed upon him the bike of Hermes while I received one from Aphrodite, complete with tassels.

I tried to not think about it, in fact, the more I rode it the more I accepted it and the more it made me feel less and less about the doubts I had about myself. I had an older sister at one time, before she moved out one day. She usually dressed me in her old clothes. I was never sure why, as I was only five and didn’t think too much about it. My hair was long and I for some reason I was more comfortable in the frills and the spirals on the collars of my shirts and thought nothing of it until my first day of kindergarten.

You would assume that my parents, maybe at least me mom, would have taken a look at my wardrobe choice and assist me to avoid a ragamuffin look. One would even think my eight year-old brother would have said something but they didn’t. I went to school, on the first day. With my long hair, sparkly jeans and a purple shirt with frills on it. It didn’t help that my deadname was Chris.